


romance is a matter of perspective

by stillmadaboutpetra



Series: raunchy bakery au [3]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bad Sex, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Established Relationship, M/M, No actual sex, Silly Sex, Sorry john wick, baz has a bologna butt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29645241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/pseuds/stillmadaboutpetra
Summary: Baz comes home to his boyfriend.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: raunchy bakery au [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2131689
Comments: 14
Kudos: 47





	romance is a matter of perspective

**Author's Note:**

> im vanilla again

I’ve been keeping the drinking down to a minimum these nights with Dev, and the minimum is just below the maximum, and the maximum is whiskey-dick fit for a Blobbyland . Can’t go home to the boyfriend with nothing to show for it. I've taken one too many blows to the ego the past couple of years and Simon checking his watch while he tries to suck me past half-mast would probably kill me.

I could reasonably convince him that I just want to keep it warm in his drooly mouth but he knows me too well by now. Shame. I missed the opportunity for kinky anonymous sex when we first met. Now we're _committed_ and _familiar_ with one another and it's all so god damned _wonderful._

I make myself sick.

Or it's the aforementioned whiskey. (Bourbon.) (It's all brown.)

See, if he had been with me tonight, he would have said “since when do you drink brown liquor” and then I would have said “always” and then he would have blown into my ear and said “it's cause we watched John Wick the other week, innit?”

And he'd be right. It's hardly my fault they went and made Keanu attractive and a glass of Blanton’s sexually charged. So now I'm in the throws of an affair with a drink I don't particularly like, chasing the high of Keanu in a tank top swinging a sledgehammer and ka-pow level gonzo shootouts.

(But Baz, you're squeamish! I can hear you disparaging me from the balcony seats. Yes yes, I hear you, I see you, you're valid, and sometimes I had to watch the movie from between my fingers and hide my face in Simon’s neck but it's just so ridiculous and over the top I surprisingly didn’t feel the phantom sensation of vomit in the back of my throat and all the blood leaving my arteries to haunt the floorboards.)

(Meanwhile, Saw ll found me face down and concussed. That was Dev’s fault.)

Possibly I can blame the whole Blanton's / John Wick thing on Simon because after the movie we'd wrestled around - proper on the ground wrestling. Grappling, if I may. Almost threw out my bloody back. But it'd been loads of fun, left us panting and sweaty and then clawing each other's clothes off. (He'd won. Of course he did. He's got twenty kilos on me at least and a feral untamed nature that was designed for fistfights and fucking.) All in all, I’m a mess of - a mess of everything. A mess in general.

He likes a bit of mess. Lucky me.

I open the flat door sneakily, giggling to myself for a job well done, and immediately trip on Simon’s trainers, sending the left one banging across the floor and into the ficus. Fuck a ficus. There's not enough light in the flat for it anyway; it's sad and miserable; it reminds me of Fiona.

There’s a concerning gargle of a noise from the bedroom. “Baz?”

Simon’s sick. He’s gotten himself a cold, poor bastard. I should make him sleep outside and spare myself the eventual contraction except I’m fairly sure I gave it to him. Agatha gave it to me. I suspect she picked it up from one of her horses. It’s the equine flu and it’s mutant. I don’t think I can catch it again, but he’s been snoring the past few nights and I’m rethinking the whole _in sickness and in health_ bit of marriage vows. I love him, but at what cost? Sadly, we aren’t married yet, so divorce is out of the question. I'm drafting up papers just to be safe.

“Sorry, love,” I whisper-shout, filling a coffeecup left in the sink and chugging tap water before creeping into the bedroom, probing the floor for anymore boobytraps and mislaid footwear. Simon's action movies are beginning to infect me. Next I'll be sweeping the rooftops for snipers and arguing explosion logistics. One more Michael Bay and we're over.

He makes a sound like a breaching whale, or a beached whale, or a whale having a normal time being a whale, and throws off the blankets to watch me scuttle around the bedroom in the dark.

“Alright?”

“Superb.”

He coughs into the crook of his arm and flops back down. “You drunk?’

“Off my tits.”

He laughs and rolls to the edge of the bed, groping at the nightstand for the light - oh I wish he wouldn’t. I must look a sight. “Aye, yeah, look at you. C’mere.”

I come here. There. I go. That’s the proper term. One does not come to a location, one goes. Wait, no, that’s not right. One comes here, don’t they. One comes and goes in equal fashion.

“Baz.”

“Coming!”

I drop my face into his warm hands and let him kiss me on the lips. He tastes like artificial cherries and chemicals. Menthol rubs off on my nose.

“How do you feel?” I pet back his sweaty curls and check him passively for a fever.

“Better,” he promises. “Just stuffed up. Been chugging tea all night. Never pissed so much in my life.”

“It’s the sick evacuating,” I assure with a pat to the general region of his bladder. “I’ll be to bed in a minute. Want another cup while I’m up?”

“Please,” Simon sniffles. “The lemon. Load it with honey.”

I get us two cups and leave Simon to incubate them on his belly while he plays on his phone, waiting for me to wash up and join him in bed. He’s at mine, although we’re a tangle of mutual cohabitation. It’s the middle ground because my life doesn’t fit into his flat, moving in above Pitch Pastry was an immediate no, and Simon doesn’t want to move in the next two years anyways until he feels like his business has more traction.

It’s nice getting to pick and choose when we want to be all over each other. We have our ecosystems and our invasive habits. God, it’s functional.

I fall into his arms after my shower, jostling the tea, jamming my knees into him and making a nuisance of myself. It’s my bed. I can do what I want.

“Lush.” He kisses my mint-bite mouth and smears menthol on my nose. I’m still a bit chapped from fucking my nostrils with tissues last week so I don’t mind too much. Sick or not, Simon’s got it bad for me, and we save the tea to roll around a little, reenacting another scene from John Wick. A sexy scene. Can’t think of which one but it’s working for me.

(There’s no scene where John gets his ass eaten and frankly, cinema has failed us.)

Simon stands to correct that. “Lemme see that ass. Sit it on my face.”

“I don't want vicks vapor rub burning a hole in me.”

Simon sniffles noisily and wipes the sleeve of his shirt across his face, wiggling his hands after like he's performed a particularly skillful trick. Ta-dah!

“Cute,” I deadpan. I only get a chubby grin for a reply and Simon pawing at me like a hungry bear after a pot of honey. Pooh. I’m fucking the human version of Pooh Bear. It's one step up from Paddington and a step below Smokey. Christ. My taste in men worries me. My sexuality was obviously shaped in the children's reading corner after Fiona forgot me at the public library one too many times while she went to buy drugs.

I’m a goddamn after hours special. A walking-talking warning for an auditorium full of kids. Don’t do drugs. Don't let your aunt do drugs. If you do, you'll be gay. You'll wind up fucking the deposed baron of the hundred acre woods.

(The real question is; does that make me Owl or Eeyore? Or worse, am Tigger? Some days I’m Tigger...)

(What was I doing again? Ah yes - There's a tongue on/at/in/near my hole.)

“Cmon it's perfect. I can't smell anything right now.”

“What,” I snarl, “the _fuck_ does that mean?”

Simon blows out a theatrical breath. The point’s obvious; I’m clearly a moron. “Means I can't smell your ass so get it in my face.”

“My ass smells fine!” I use witch hazel medicated moist wipes goddamnit. To prove my point, I stick a finger between my crack really rub it around, get it in there, get a load of myself to then sniff noisily in Simon’s face, conviction twisting my features, my hair wild from our little romp. Simon says I look like the brown man’s Beethoven, but I’m far closer to Einstein. I’m a scientist gone mad. I’m Frankenstein abandoning my child monster. I’m Igor pulling the levers. I'm smelling ass-finger.

“This is top shelf ass, Simon, you ungrateful sodomite.”

“Ah, babe, don't get all mean and biblical about it. I just meant - look, baby, I love your ass. Love it. Love how you smell, how you taste, gets me so fucking hungry-”

“Good-”

“Smells just like a deli counter.”

“I beg your fucking pardon?” Truly, I'm begging. I'm pleading against logic that what I just heard wasn't what I just heard.

Simon, unbothered, snugs my bottom over his face, settling in like a man in a fox hole, a soldier in his war bunker, a king preparing for a long siege. One would have to smoke or starve him out of his fortified location. “Yeah. It's like a bologna sandwich down here. Love it. Gimme some mustard.”

(It’s the Cold and Flu PM talking!)

(I would clearly be a classic pastrami on rye. I’m a man of substance.)

I let out an unholy, wrathful shriek and grab the nearest pillow, the heavy one, the therapeutic neck support one, and hit Simon with it. It's like slinging a sandbag. A sock stuffed with soap. I'm going for maximum damage. John Wick, hear me roar.

“Get out of my ass you nasty-”

Simon cackles and takes a big audible breath-

“Snow-!” He wouldn't. He wouldn't dare.

He dares.

Simon blows the fattest noisiest raspberry right over my hole, floppy, wet, and terribly rude. Air goes _in_ me. My butt’s a helium balloon in reverse. A clown could fashion me into a depressed elephant and hand me out at a birthday party. It's a horrid and fleshy image.

I collapse across him, murdered.

“I hate you.”

Simon nibbles on a buttcheek. “Just wait till we're married.”

“I'm going to murder you for the life insurance money.”

“Damn,” Simon sighs, “that was my plan.” He shakes me gently and sniffs hard again. “Sit on my face.”

I root a hand between my legs to check on my cock. _Still with me, old boy? Got one last show in ya? One more for the fans and then we can retire, get us a nice ranch, couple of cows….live the quiet life._

It has been two weeks without more than a wank between us. Flu season. Criminal.

“You're going to suffocate,” I warn him. “Mouth-breather.”

“Yeah,” Simon says from between my legs, muffled, kissing my thighs and balls, “kind of hot. Like. Choke me out. Fucking ride me, Baz.”

“I plan too.” After that mortification, Simon will be lucky if I don't make him black out. “I'm finishing no matter what. No tapping out.”

Simon shifts us both, untroubled by my body weight on his chest. It's like riding a bucking bull and it's splendid. I've always taken my height as a sort of passive means of domination but Simon’s sheer broadness and muscle routinely reorients my world. I don't feel little beside him so much as proportionate for the first time.

“Oh, yeah, yes,” Simon encourages, giving me a squeeze. “Yeah, fuck my face if I pass out. Or let me sleep. God, I could sleep.”

“I know a lovely therapist,” I offer. Simon laughs into a buttcheek. “And I'll give you some more nighttime cold and flu after.”

“Love you,” Simon says by way of agreeance. I pat his belly. Love you too, Pooh-bear. Then, very quietly like he thinks I won't hear, he whispers “orders up,” into my deep crevices.

The next day, I have to ban the Oscar Meyer Weiner song. Simon sleeps at his own flat the rest of the week.


End file.
